They call me the working man!
by magz
Summary: Everyones favorite, Furio Giunta, is sent to a brothel, but finds there's more to it than meets the eye. [Updated 04.03.02. Easier to read now]


"They call me the working man!"

  
  
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[The Sopranos and everything related, copyright the right (and rich) people. Everything me, copyright me.]  
**-Magz  
magz@charter.net  
http://webpages.charter.net/noise  
**----  
  
  
    Furio Giunta doesn't know where he is. He has a splitting headache, and he can't move. He's numb all over, tingling, pins and needles to the point of pain. He's staring at a wall, stucco white. He blinks dust and sweat from his eyes, a lethal combination that causes them to burn. He doesn't recognize the wall, then again, wonders why he should recognize some white stucco wall. No feeling in his limbs, yet he was wiggling his fingers, but couldn't move his head to see if they were moving or not.
  
    He moves his eyes left a post it note is stuck to the wall. He blinks the sweat from his eyes again - _damn it's hot in here!_ - and focuses his eyes on the black printing.
  
    **If you can read this: You fucked up.**
  
    _... what the fuck?_
  
    There's a weight on his shoulder, and suddenly his vision is moving, a quick blur and then he's staring at a white stucco ceiling. _Fucking white stucco-_
  
    "Who are you?"
  
    _Italian! Hey, friendly Italian! This is just some prank that the boys ... shit._
  
    Then her head moves into his view. She's crouched beside him, on the balls of her feet, and a large gun held loosely in her hand. She asks her question again, dark eyebrows pulling together over the darker eyes, glaring at him. She's a handsome woman, not drop dead gorgeous, but far from ugly. Spiraled black hair that's pulled back, except for the renegade strands framing her oval face. She's wearing torn jeans and a shirt with a tongue on the front. _Isn't that some band's logo, the lips and tongue?_
  
    And then the gun is slapped upside his temple. _Fuck!_ The one spot he's not numb.
  
    "Answer me faster. Who are you?"
  
    Giunta moves his mouth. His tongue feels like lead, his lips like bloated fish. He thinks he can taste blood too, but no, wait ... _garlic?_
  
    "Who. Are. You."
  
    _Right. The question. Man, the minds everywhere today._ "Furio," he says. "Furio Giunta." But aloud, it comes out garbled, nonsensical. His lips don't move right. He closes and opens his mouth, licking the lips and trying to gain some movement.
  
    "Thoo-eeo?" The woman stands, giant and out of proportion from his spot on the floor. "Thor-eo? Foreo? Fureo? Furio?"
  
    He nods. He thinks._ Did I nod?_
  
    She looks down at him. He did something to let her know she was right. "Furio," she mutters. She kneels down again, tapping the gun against her knee. "My uncles name was Furio, too. He was a jerk as well." She sighs, almost dejectedly and disappears from view.
  
    He blinks at the ceiling, rolls his eyes back and left to try and follow her. She's at a desk, papers rustling. A click. _Not the gun, a suitcase? _He moves his head the slightest, shoulder lifting up from the floor. And then suddenly he can feel his toe. _One toe, not much, but man! It's a toe!_
  
    And then she's back, kneeling down again. And she's got a needle five feet long. _Holy shit. _
  
    Calm down, he tells himself._ It's not five feet long, look at it, it's only **holy fuck! She just jabbed that into your thigh!** Where the fuck are you? The fucking bitch!_
  
    The woman casts him a lidded look, as if she can read his thoughts. Then she stands again. "Good night, Furio. Sleep tight."  
_Shit, what the hell is ... is ... woah ..._
  
    And Giunta closes his eyes, drops his head to the side, and falls unconscious.
  
** **  
    Several hours later he's awake again. Furio Giunta, paralyzed, and being carefully scrutinized by a woman he doesn't recognize. He's sitting in a chair now. Wiggle the fingers ... but no, nothing. There's a pressure on his wrists and on his ankles as well. _Rope? Cuffs? Maybe this was a sex romp gone horribly wrong ..._
  
    Another sigh from the woman. He focuses his eyes on her, blinks. She blinks back. She's sitting on a bed, head resting in her hands. She's wearing the same jeans, but a different shirt. _A C D C ... an electrician, maybe?_
  
    "Confused?"
  
    He nods. He thinks. ..._ Fuck._
  
    "You broke into my office with the intent of killing me. I've got a fear of being killed by gun toting maniacs. As you can guess, I stopped you. So you ended up here. I hope no one's waiting up for you at home."
  
    _Shake your head no ... that's it, nice shake! Some feeling coming back there, two toes now, and your pinky. And man oh man, the tender spot where she hit you upside the head with the gun. You were asking for that, man. Answer quickly, pay attention, and get yourself the fuck out of this situation._
  
    "Furio? Can you hear me?"
  
    _Shit._
  
    "That's right, focus on me ... good boy. Stop talking to yourself. Now, I asked who you worked for." A pause. Another frown. "Don't shake your head at me, Furio. I'll know soon enough. I'm sure someone will be here soon. It's been," she looked beyond him at something, "six hours now. Got someone in the car across the street?"
  
    Shaking the head no. Trying to say it as well._ Mo?_
  
    "No? Good." She stands, disappearing as she moves past him. A door opens, closes, and there's silence. He can move his head now, and takes a look around.
  
    The room is maybe fifteen by fifteen, stucco white wall, stucco white ceiling, and white tile floor. The bed she was sitting on is accompanied by a simple desk, no drawers, which is covered in papers. He can see the gun she had before sitting on top of a stack. As feeling returns though, and he can more freely move his head about, he tosses that idea. He's tied quite securely to the chair, he can see handcuffs on his ankles, and he's sure on his wrists as well. _Use your mind to get out of this._
  
    The walls of the room are covered in posters. Bands, movies, several of which he doesn't even recognize. Post it notes are stuck everywhere else. He can read the few closest to him.
  
    **Some people are alive only because it's illegal to kill them.**
  
    And now a moment of fear. It quickly passes as his eyes land on an Austin Powers poster. Even he saw that movie. Next to that poster, drawn on the wall in thick black marker, is a cartoon rabbit smoking a cigarette.
  
    The bed is just a futon, not even a bed frame to keep it off the floor. There's a pillow, but no sheets. Some clothes are strewn around the floor, several pairs of shoes, and tons of pencils, discarded drawings of various things, and even half spilt paint bottles.
  
    The door opens. "Furio?"
  
    And then it all comes rushing back.
  
  
  
    "I'm sorry, do you have an appointment?"
  
    English, _fuck_ he hated this language sometimes.
  
    "No. No appointment. No need appointment."
  
    The woman at the desk raised her eyebrows. She had been working on some totals, numbers scattered around the page beneath her hand. "Yeah, you do need an appointment. Malvacanti is quite busy. You want to make an appointment?"
  
    _Fuck._
  
    Furio Giunta dropped his hand, pulled it up again with his gun aimed at the secretary's head. She barely blinked. And then, as if she remembered to scared, leaned back in her chair, eyes going wide.
  
    "Okay, okay!" she said, voice trembling. "Right through that door!" She pointed at the door behind her. "She's in there!" Near hysterics? _Was that forced?_
  
    He didn't care. He moved around the desk, pushed open the door, throwing it open more like. He stepped into the office. It was lavishly furnished, a large mahogany desk near the far wall, in front of a large window. Pictures from early Renaissance hung from wood paneling. His loafers sank into the lush carpets that extended throughout the room. He stepped further in, behind a large L-shaped black leather couch. Then he realized the room was empty.
  
    As the realization sunk in, there was a sharp prick in the middle of his back. He turned around, extended his arm behind his back but couldn't reach the tingling feeling. In the door stood the secretary.
  
    She stood leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed over her chest, watching him casually.
  
    "No one here!" he said, and then again reached for what had hit him in the back. He cursed beneath his breath in Italian, heard a chuckle from the secretary and glanced at her again.
  
    "If you had an appointment," she says in clear and precise Italian, "we wouldn't have had this problem."
  
    Then suddenly she splits into two, a mirror image of herself standing to her right. The two women smile brightly at him. And then the lush carpet is rushing up to meet him.
  
  
  
    The door opens. "Furio?"
  
    And then it all comes rushing back.
  
    He whirls instinctively, throwing all his force into the motion he would carry out so easily when on his own two feet. Being in a chair, the best he manages is a less than graceful tipping onto his side. "You!" he shouts from his new but familiar position on the floor.
  
    She walks over to him. "Me?"
  
    "You drugged me!" he accuses, spitting the words out in English. He reverts back to Italian the next second. "Where am I?"
  
    "Castello d'If. ... do you remember?"
  
    He pauses. "Yes."
  
    "And do you remember why you came here?"
  
    "No," he lies.
  
    "I do," she says. She moves behind him and easily tips the chair back up. "You came here to threaten me into paying you and your family -- the Soprano's? -- into paying you for protection."
  
    He arcs his head over his shoulder, looking back at her. She's at the desk again, searching for a pen that works.
  
    "Maybe." He relinquishes that much. He would have been telling her this anyway, right? ... _if she hadn't drugged me be_- "Wait!"
  
    "Hmm?" She doesn't look over.
  
    "Who are you? The office was empty, where's Malvacanti?"
  
    She pauses in her search for a pen and turns to face him. "I am Sabine Malvacanti," she says simply.
  
    He stares. "No!"
  
    "Yes!" she responds with the same energy as his refusal. He shakes his head again, stops at the second shake. It's possible ... he came from a family run by a woman. _Extenuating circumstances, but this is America. Possibly ..._
  
    "Malvacanti runs one of the biggest and well protected brothels!"
  
    "Thank you." She turns back to the desk.
  
    "No!" he repeats. His vision swims a second and he blinks away the ensuing nausea. "No, a woman can't run a brothel built like the Castello d'If!" 
  
    "She can. She is."
  
    And now his mind is clearing, the cloud of insanity is lifting. His headache is intensifying, but he can think more clearly now. The light headiness causing him the giddy feeling is slowly ebbing away.
  
    "You come from Italy, don't you?" she asks. "You think in the old ways. This is America, Furio."
  
    Giunta frowns, struggles a bit at the cuffs. Turns his head around to the other shoulder, looking back at her still. She's found a pen, she's writing something.
  
    "So you also act as your own secretary?"
  
    "I'm anti-social. I don't like meeting people that I don't know yet. You're the first new person I've met in eight months." All said so simply that she can't possibly be lying. "What's your last name?"
  
    "Why?"
  
    She gives another sigh, sitting the pen down. She walks around in front of him, giving his neck a break from the wrenched position it was in. "Listen, Furio. Word of advice: next time you approach a well known business in an attempt to extort a monthly insurance fee ... wear a suit, approach with some civility, and practice your English." She moves back to the desk, and he follows her with his head. "Last name?"
  
    "Giunta."
  
    She scribbles something.
  
    "How much?"
  
    "For?"
  
    Sigh. "For protection."
  
    "Ten thousand a month."
  
    She scribbles something more and then comes back to him. She holds a slip of paper in her fingers, holds it in front of his face. "A check for the next two months. In your name."
  
    Giunta opens his mouth to protest; she put a finger to his lips, he shut them.
  
    "The bank is ten minutes down the street, corner of Marsh and Broad. They'll cash it for you." She tucks the note in his coat pocket and steps back. "I'm keeping your gun. I'll give it back to you next month. You will be the only one to ever come for the money, do you understand? I've only had a few cases where my girls have been hurt, but if anything happens to them again, I'm coming to you for answers, and for compensation." 
  
    As she talked, she moved across the room, next to the bed and pulled a poster of a pirate movie aside. She pushed open a door there, swinging it outwards. A staircase was beyond it. She moved back to him, finishing with, "I'll leave the key to both pairs of handcuffs in your left hand before I leave. I trust you'll leave right away?"
  
    He nods. _Why not?_ He came for money and he has it._ No body has to know about the handcuffs and the drugging ...._
  
    "Good. Well than, Furio ... " she moves behind him, and a small key is pressed into his palm, " ... I look forward to seeing you in two months."
  
    Giunta waits until he hears the door open and close. The second it clicks into place, he gets the key into two fingers and twists his hands until he can reach the lock. He's loose in seconds, up and rubbing his wrists. His first step is unsteady and he falters, barely saving himself from pitching forward. Steadying himself, he takes a last look around. No checkbook, no gun, just drawings and posters and quotes.
  
    He leaves quickly, pulling the door closed behind him. There's no handle on this side, and he finds the same for each door on the floors below. He goes down four levels, remembering that he came up four to get to Malvacanti's office, and then he's finally at a door with a handle.  
It leads outside to the back parking lot. He blinks in the sunlight, orientates himself, and starts around the building. His car is where he left it, why would it not be?, and within minutes he's left the Castello d'If far behind. The memory lasts much longer, but to no one does he breath a word. 
  
    Tony is happy with the twenty thousand he is given a hour later, and in cash too!, and leaves the job of security to Giunta. Giunta takes it willingly. The less upper management involved with Malvancanti, the more face he saves, and if this Italian is big on anything, it's pride. 
  
    The two months pass quickly. Spring comes in a rush, and then the summer heat has settled over New York. A small security team is set up at the brothel, and there is only one reported accident during the two months. The one mishap there was, Giunta's team fixed quickly, and the rest of the time was quiet. 
  
    Before Giunta knows it, the two months are over, come and gone more quickly than he cared to notice. He finds himself outside the Castello d'If. He was leaning against his car, nervously chewing on his thumbnail. He's been leaning there for ten minutes now, staring intently at the entrance to the building, and scanning the forth floor. Nothing suspicious, nothing out of the ordinary ... nothing, no reason he isn't going in. He tells himself this quietly, silently ... and then he's shouting that line in his head. _No reason! No reason you aren't going in! Go in!_
  
    He takes a breath, pushes away from his car, crosses the street, and enters the Castello d'If.
  
  
  
_Chapter 2 at some point this life...._


End file.
